


always in the end

by saintroux



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintroux/pseuds/saintroux
Summary: “we’re really kind of exceptionally bad at this,” brad decides, “i think we may have a problem.”





	

“How do I look?” Brad mimics, throwing his feet up on the arm of the couch with a thud and posing his hands in display against the enormous bundle of scarves draped around his neck and over his hair.

Adam is nearly certain that if he turns around Brad’s ankles will be daintily crossed, his toes pale and pointed and ridiculous, so he doesn’t. For as much as he is trying to delusion himself otherwise, he’s not home to waste time.

“Holly Golightly, Brad, really?” He says instead, back turned, “and here I was believing you hadn’t yet lost all of that youthful charm.” His hands occupy him with folding shirts and jeans up tight enough to fit in however many suitcases he was allowed for this trip, which probably isn’t many, and he listens to Brad’s laugh bubble lightly from behind him, easy and familiar. 

“You know, I don’t know if I ever told you,” Brad intros, coy, and dear lord, Adam just knows this is going to be something stupid, “but house-sitting for you is a lot harder than one would think.” The way it’s said is pointed, demure and condescending all at once and okay, yeah, Adam has fallen for it—Brad’s got his goat. 

“Oh, I’m just so sure, baby, I’m so sure.” Adam says, patting at Brad’s head lightly on his way back past the couch and into the closet, and all he thinks is that he can smell faintly that air of Brad’s apartment and that Brad’s hair was fluffy and soft under his hand and that, okay, he’d kind of like to fuck him. Maybe even today, as it stands, because while it’s likely not the smartest idea he’s ever come up with, it’s not as if he’ll be regularly fucking anyone anytime in the foreseeable future, and from what Adam remembers Brad is kind of monumentally good at sex. 

With him, specifically. And you know what, fuck Adam’s life. Jerking off by himself more times than not sucks. 

At any rate, he’s got t-minus six hours until he has to get the fuck out of here and back up into the air, so it’s not as if they actually have time for anything more than Adam packing two more months worth of shit and Brad commentating loudly about his ass—while dusting heinous amounts of vegan veggie mix crumbs on his leather couch and not in his own mouth where they belong, no less.

Adam walks out of the closet carrying another armful of boots and Brad does just that, grabbing a good handful of Adam’s ass for posterity as he walks away, squirming away from Brad’s fingers good naturedly.

“You little fucker,” he shoots back over his shoulder, tossing an errant boot at Brad’s head in retaliation. Brad ducks away, but lets the boot hit the wall behind his head, opting instead to stretch languidly across the length of the couch, yawning dramatically into the palm of his hand. 

“Don’t say you didn’t expect that, darling,” he chuckles back, “and it’s just latent payback for all of the times I had to do my own actual dishes while you were away.” And Brad is laughing even harder now—sweet—and Adam can remember the way his stomach muscles vibrate with every breath of that laugh. It’s like a latent memory three years in the making and it feels warm against the insides of Adam’s head as he watches fondly and lets it consume him. 

“You’d better not be complaining about being able to get out of your apartment,” Adam says, “which for the record is a piece of shit—for a whole entire month, or I will per—”

“Adam,” Brad is standing now, having circled around while Adam chided him, placing neatly folded clothes into the suitcases open across the bed, “I swear to god I will murder you in your sleep if you do not shut up and start packing this shit so we can get on to better things.” He shoves an entire stack more of jeans in and then reaches down to start tossing in shoes when Adam protests.

“I do have to leave soon, so like, we really can’t,” he begins and Brad stops mid throw of some tall studded boot or another and speaks.

“I meant better as in—are these mine?” Brad interrupts himself and Adam turns his head to asses, “You little bitch! I just knew you were exploiting me for more than my body.” Brad jabs the boot against Adam’s chest and Adam laughs like it’s a secret or maybe like he’s relieved. To be here—inside where there isn’t the flash of cameras, but the faint glow of old strings of holiday lights, and where he can rub the pads of his fingers against the back of Brad’s neck without feeling like the world is living and moving just under his skin. 

And that’s what it is, the friendly motion of Adam’s skin against the dotted freckles of Brad’s neck and it’s something Brad used to do to him, all those years ago. Doing it for Brad feels easy, simple, and yeah, sure, they fucked a few times last time he was in town for longer than five seconds, but they aren’t fucking, not really. It’s not as if he forgets, but they’re grown ass men—they can fuck or not fuck as they please, he figures, media and social norms be damned. It’s not as if they were ever any good at being broken up anyway. 

He says as much to Brad, who quips back with an equally amused, “Oh, honey, I’d say we’re perfectly horrid,” and bites at the lobe of Adam’s ear before squirming away to the door like a child, boot back in hand. And Adam watches him, strong legs moving under heinously patterned leggings, thin shoulders shaking in barely contained delight, and thinks, god, fuck it, and follows Brad to the door. 

As it so happens, the door is closed, so when he reaches it, he nearly has Brad pinned, back straight against the solid oak. The thought is amusing, almost, a solid foundation like they never had, something to back them the fuck up, but he figures it’s nigh about time.

“I really hate those tights, you know,” he says instead, “in case I never told you.” He’s got Brad tense in the cage of his arms, now, but in place of feeling strained it just feels electric and easy. 

Brad just eyes up at him, brow raised. “Says the man who bedazzled his codpiece, utterly without irony,” and, you know what, fuck that, his codpiece was awesome and Brad is just a jealous little bitch who knows nothing. Except that doesn’t stop him from dragging a hand from Brad’s wrist to his neck, curling his palm around, and kissing him. And, you know, it’s in moments like this one that Adam is solidified in his belief that it was never the sex that was the problem—fuck, he’s pretty sure if anything could’ve saved that relationship it would’ve been the sex, hands down. 

No matter that that’s likely a lie, because Brad’s mouth tastes exceptional and raw against his right about now. Relationships be damned. 

And it’s then that Adam tears his mouth away with a harsh pop, wiping at Brad’s lower lip with his thumb. “I hate your stupid mouth too,” he says, still staring at Brad’s lip, “just so you know.” 

It’s said with nearly the opposite of sincerity and Brad considers laughing at how un-serious Adam’s serious face is, but it’s kind of cute, even if Adam did recently insult his choice of leg wear.

“We’re really kind of exceptionally bad at this,” Brad decides, “I think we may have a problem.” But he’s pulling Adam down for another kiss, and three, and four—who even cares at this point. 

“Horrid,” Adam says as a breath of hot air, and Brad’s next kiss lands on the turned up smile of his mouth, “absolutely horrid.”


End file.
